


Pledge

by LuciustheDragon



Category: Uta no Prince-sama
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Blood, Character Study, Cutting, Gen, Graphic Self Harm, Hysteria, Kissing, M/M, Sensory Overload, limited 3rd person POV, major spoilers for the games, neurodiverse character interpretations by an autistic author, touch-starved Camus, what I would like to call Magic ex Machina but I consider it a necessary evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 05:16:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15923621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciustheDragon/pseuds/LuciustheDragon
Summary: Among everything in the laundry list of things Reiji is ashamed of, he needed nobody to find out about this. Of course, as a far-from-perfect man, he fucks up in front of simultaneously the best and worst person possible.





	Pledge

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, dear reader! Another warning that this has some semi-graphic depictions of self-harm, so please refrain from reading if that subject matter is triggering and/or otherwise anything you are uncomfortable with. 
> 
> I made an effort to not romanticise cutting, neurodiversity, and mental illness. If something doesn’t read well in this aspect, please let me know! I have a lot to learn as a writer.
> 
> All of that aside, I hope you enjoy reading.

He lies on a hospital bed in his uncle’s office, fed with IV fluid and nutrients from tubes. Electrodes on his head connect to wires trailing to a computer.

[Processing…]

[Data link complete.]

It opens its eyes. The uncle smiles wistfully. He lets the tears flow because it doesn’t have the data to connect the tear duct activity with what he feels.

“Mikaze Ai. You’re awake.” It doesn’t respond.

He looks at his nephew’s call history and dials the number of the person to whom he last reached out. The doctor knows him quite well. He almost feels guilty because it’s around three in the morning, but he has just made a major development. Besides, that boy must be worried sick.  
To his astonishment, he picks up before the first ring can finish and begins to ramble rapid-fire.

“Doctor Kisaragi-san? Aine! Aine, is he––”

“Don’t worry yourself, Reiji. He’s in stable condition, but I want you to come here. There’s something you’ll want to see.”

*^*^*^*^*

_Ten years, fourteen hours, and forty-seven minutes later_

*^*^*^*^*

Reiji enjoys it—as much as he can enjoy self-inflicted wounds, that is. He sees the light lacerations against his stomach and thighs in the mirror. Seeing them means he doesn’t have to act anymore. He has always acted. When his father left, he acted. When Aine flung himself into the ocean, he acted. When his (both past and present) bandmates make apparent their disdain of him, he acted.

Scrubbing his face with a cold cloth, Reiji unveils his dark circles and pallid cheeks before reapplying foundation to the wrinkles formed by his dimples from whenever he smiled. It’s a relief to not have to smile anymore. He takes a fresh blade from the drawer and methodically cuts, this time slightly under his rib cage. Ten times, for ten years. Rather than hurting, it numbs him. He watches the blood collect in the wounds before it slides down, warm and viscous. With newfound rage, he slashes at himself on his stomach and pectorals because ten years and he still can’t get his shit together. How selfish of him. How weak. The blood dries on his skin, tear tracks of his being, but the grainy, sanguine rust taints them.

Reiji pulls out a disinfectant wipe and cleans himself of the spilt blood. The cuts sting from alcohol. A sharp pang of shame makes him unable to look at himself anymore, and he pulls on a white undershirt before falling into his bed. The culminating thoughts rush yet never seem to end. He feels the strain of his every smile, the annoyed reactions, but that is all he knows. It’s that or letting Quartet Night fall to pieces, and if such were to happen, then what would Reiji have to live for? What would Aine have effectively died for? Nothing. The time he was needed the most, might have actually been useful, he couldn’t be. He thought that eventually he would get over it, move on, but every moment is like this. He buries his face into a pillow to muffle a frustrated scream. He tries to make himself cry, sometimes. It never really works, and it furthers the fear that his mask is going to become him and nobody will know, but it’s better if they don’t know, he doesn’t want anyone to end up like Aine, or even to end up like him, he just wants to cry and reflect on how he feels, but he just can’t. He should really pull himself together in time for their practise, but alas, he falls asleep.

*^*^*^*^*

Usually, Kotobuki is the first one to pipe up about rehearsals. It’s annoying, for certain, but at least it serves to remind the less committed among them. However, it’s thirteen minutes before their planned rehearsal, and Kotobuki is absent. He usually becomes noisy around half an hour prior to disturb his tea time. He shouldn’t be concerned (he isn’t concerned), but Kotobuki’s lacking activity, though definitely a relief, is rather suspicious.

Camus knocks on the door. No response. Reiji did say that his room is open to anybody if they need an ear, even if nobody ever takes him up on the offer for their sanity’s sake. He turns the knob on the door to Kotobuki’s bedroom, expecting it to be unlocked. It’s locked. He blinks in incredulity, then he knocks more loudly.

“S-Sorry! I’m making last minute preparations, I’ve got something planned for you!” The voice is muffled. Camus seats himself again with his tea. His head pulses mildly from his irritation, so he drips in another few spoonfuls of condensed milk.

*^*^*^*^*

The knocking on the door wakes Reiji from his impromptu nap. He almost fully spirals into panic while he tries not to stutter, making an excuse of readying a surprise. He trudges to the bathroom and looks again to the darkening bags under his red-rimmed eyes. What a surprise this would be, hm? He hastily performs his makeup routine, and he looks as he should. Putting on a random zany outfit from his closet and stowing a matching hat into his bag, he puts on his best smile and barges out of the room.

*^*^*^*^*

When Kotobuki exits his room some minutes later, he looks like his usual. He dons another stupid outfit he probably thinks to be high fashion. Definitely some bizarre British trend, for he obsesses over the British. A deep green argyle sweater vest over a collared shirt, salmon pink silk. The (lack of) color coordination makes his eye twitch, and as Camus scrutinizes further, it is more and more atrocious. Kotobuki rolled up the cuffs to reveal an embroidered fleur-de-lys-esque design in vomitous olive green, which clashes horrendously with the argyle. However, worst of all, he wears tan corduroy (corduroy!) trousers to finish the disgraceful ensemble. He’s grinning a bit wider as well, like he knows that it irritates him. The worst and altogether most baffling observation is how decidedly unperturbed Camus is by Kotobuki’s “fashion” statement. Unperturbed is not quite the right term, for the (in the most generous of terms) uncanny attire does perturb him. It is perturbing not in the conniption fit-inducing way so much as in the endearing way, but the realisation that this is the case induces an internal crisis, which is arguably far worse. In a fit of self-pity and anguish, Camus bypasses the medium of tea altogether and indulges in a straight tablespoon of condensed milk in preparation for the impending practise.

*^*^*^*^*  
Practice goes about as expected. Reiji assumes so, at least. He is barely listening to himself, much less to anybody else. He’s still stuck. It’s fine. He can play it off as being air-headed on purpose. If they don’t believe him, he has the “special plan” he concocted at the last second to deflect suspicion. It works. At Camus’s questioning glare, Reiji pulls the zany hat from nowhere, the rest of Quartet Night groaning in unison, and all appears well.  
  
However, the earlier self-inflicted violence has its costs.

Usually, Reiji is careful to not cut where skin stretches too much when singing, but today he is careless. It would be today. Each abdominal breath is agonizing. A particularly rigorous part of practice has him wincing as one of the newly scabbing cuts breaks open and lets the blood trickle out like water from a drowned man’s mouth because Reiji isn’t strong enough to save him—

“Kotobuki. That was your cue.”

“Oh, oops! Haha!” He laughs without thinking.

“Kotobuki, since we are here to practise, please at least attempt to take this seriously.” Camus maintains a flat tone, almost patronizing, but Reiji can barely pay attention as he resists curling into himself from pain.

Fuck.

*^*^*^*^*  
After another few minutes of practise, the group is in unison, which is quite the achievement. At the very least, Camus, Kurosaki, and Mikaze have found temporary common ground in their unified annoyance at the lacking productivity. Even as the three of them begin to unplug and stow away equipment, Kotobuki makes no move to stop them. The complacent silence should be a reprieve, but it isn’t.

“This doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere. What a waste of time. I’m outta here.” Camus’s strange relief at the broken silence cancels out the gut reaction to Kurosaki (intense irritation), leaving him at a tenuous neutral. That balance is thrown out the window when Kurosaki faces him.

“Lucky you, now you have an excuse to get even more of that milk shit, since you were chugging it down earlier.” Fuck this asshole. It is unbecoming language, Camus is aware, but as long as the words stay in the confines of his mind, he can indulge himself.

“Actually, I was going to continue practising on my own. You are the one who seized the opportunity to leave, Kurosaki.” He had not actually planned on doing so, but now that he has said it, he cannot go back on his word. Ranmaru looks as if he is about to snap out a reply, but he just puts away his bass then huffs in frustration as he storms out of the practise studio, brandishing a middle finger as he goes. Quite the ruffian, he is.

“I project that there is nothing more to be accomplished by being here. My time is more productive elsewhere.” Mikaze departs without another word, by some miracle not furthering Camus’s irritation.

However, one more troublesome Quartet Night member stands in the way of Camus’s peace and quiet. Perhaps not the quiet, for Kotobuki has remained unnervingly silent for all this while, but having him present would nevertheless disturb his peace.

“Kotobuki. If you are following suit, do not waste more of my time by dilly-dallying like a lowly peas—“ Camus chokes on the rest of his words from shock (he makes a mental note to curb that gut reaction at a later time) when he sees a spot of ferric red beginning to stain Kotobuki’s shirt. Camus (successfully, this time) holds back a sigh of irritation at finding himself roped into checking on a supposedly bleeding work partner. The injury could be a contributor to Kotobuki’s unusual demeanor and perhaps affect Quartet Night’s ability to perform. Of less import, or so he attempts to convince himself, Camus does have something of a conscience. So far removed from Camus’s expectations of himself that he does not even think of it before compartmentalising is his distinct concern for Kotobuki.

“Kotobuki.”

“Hm?”

“Are you injured? I see blood seeping through your shirt.”

He blinks in confusion before grinning. “Not that I know of!” Given that utterly obnoxious reply, Camus is not going to heed his word. What can he say? He is feeling particularly petty and certainly not concerned today.

“...Truly?”

“Truly!”

“Well then, I suppose you would not mind my seeing for myself. I preemptively beg pardon for the intrusion if what you say is true.”

Camus yanks up the bottom of Kotobuki’s shirt before he can intervene. To his horror, there are a number of cuts, one of which has been bleeding, the others scabbed over. The shock is so great that it stops Camus’s literal gut reaction.

“You lied.”

Kotobuki stands still, petrified, a broad smile still frozen on his face even as the blood trickles from one of many visible lacerations on his upper body.

“What is this?”

“It’s a stunt for a performance of mine! Haha! It isn’t real! Don’t tell me Myu-Myu was actually worried about me!”

Camus ignores his words and presses a finger to the bloody cut. He concentrates his ice magic into that finger.

“Myu-Myu, haha! That’s cold! It tickles!” Camus, frustrated, intensifies the magic.  
  
“Camus, I’m going numb, is this some kind of prank? I didn’t realize you were taking after me—!” He lets out a scream which sends a jolt of horror down Camus’s spine as Kotobuki smacks the finger away to press his trembling hand to the cut. However, it does not affect him. No. It passes him by. He is merely seeking the truth, and there it is. His magic must be in need of refinement if it took this much for the pain of the cut to make itself apparent.

Camus looks up to Reiji’s face. He is appalled to see tears steadily trailing his cheeks. He had evidently been in pain long before he revealed himself audibly.

“Who did this to you?” Camus murmurs, hot anger seeping through his typically icy speech. It grows as Reiji keeps up that damned smile.

“Nobody important.”

“Are you attempting to deceive me once again?”

The smile broadens.

“I’m not lying! Really! It’s nobody! They don’t mean anything! It doesn’t matter that he did this, I’ll get it looked at later—“

“Who. Did. This.” Reiji’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly and he turns to leave, but Camus catches him by the arm.

“Think about the rest of Quartet Night. We could all be in danger if this ‘nobody important’ has it out for you.”

Reiji’s smile turns sardonic. “It would never happen.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“He would never hurt a fellow member of Quartet Night.”

Wait a moment...

*^*^*^*^*

“Fellow member?” Reiji’s heart stops before it throbs at record pace. He slipped. He slipped, Camus is going to know, he’s going to know, they’re all going to know—

“It’s someone in this group?! But then you said he wouldn’t hurt a fellow member, which means…” Camus trails off. His face doesn’t show any signs of shock, but the room turns twenty degrees colder. Actually, Reiji doesn’t know what his face looks like. He refuses to look at him.

“Fool.” Camus’s voice sounds wrong. Reiji can’t pin it down.

“What?” He feels like he’s drowning. How fitting. He thinks of Aine, and he keeps his smile wide.

Camus makes a choked sound deep in his throat and interrupts Reiji’s thoughts. He still doesn’t look up. He couldn’t bear it if Camus faced him with cold mockery or, worse, apathy. Reiji has come to expect it, but then fingers trail along the bleeding wound and traces of past scars. Reiji shivers, not from cold, but from how uncharacteristically light his touch is.

“I thought that as someone quite adept at putting up a mask, I would have understood before now that you had put up your own.”

He whips his head up in shock at his words, spoken in monotone, albeit a tremorous monotone. Camus’s mouth is pressed to a tense line that Reiji would normally associate with annoyance, but his eyes hold something altogether different from anything Reiji has ever seen from him. Pity? Guilt? Sadness? He thinks Camus to be above such overt shows of emotion. Who is Reiji kidding? He isn’t worth anything to evoke such feelings, he can’t bear that look, he has to smile and maybe Camus will go back to being his annoyed self and they can go back to normal.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Camus sighs, taking the hand with which he touched Reiji to pinch the bridge of his nose before letting it rest at his side, fully concentrating his piercing gaze to meet Reiji’s own. If Reiji looks away, he will have lost any and all ability to return back to being The Clown Idol, unfazed by anything, the butt of the jokes…

“You really are twisted. Even like this, you try to keep everything as it was. What are you trying to do? Become some kind of martyr? Acting the fool as always while you’re…” He trails off, and the feeling building in Camus’s eyes reveals itself to Reiji when a traitorous drop of it slides down a cheek even as Camus continues to school his face into his default scowl.

“What—Myu-Myu—You—No! No, you are not doing this, this isn’t happening. I’m going insane. I’m seeing things—”

“I am doing this. How wouldn’t I? How could you expect even less than a modicum of care from me? You’re delusional.” He’s too loud. Reiji’s mind is filled with too much nothing and he can’t feel anything, he needs to feel it, something, feel anything anything because he’s breathing just breathe he can’t breathe breathe dammit fingers moving claw open scabbing cuts breathe feel but then cool hands grip his wrists. The cold doesn’t occur to him for a few seconds. Camus hisses words of a foreign tongue under his breath, and now the cold pulses through his skin, burns until it doesn’t anymore. He’s just tired. Very tired. He tries to think of anything that isn’t about how tired he is, but he can’t bring himself to do so. Reiji resigns to it. He shuts his eyes and lets himself fall forward, already unconscious by the time Camus catches him.

*^*^*^*^*  
Still holding Kotobuki, Camus pulls out his phone and notifies the rest of Quartet Night that he has business to take care of and to not dare disturb him. That should take care of them. He does not want them being annoying.

Taking care to not be seen, Camus makes his way to his own apartment, Kotobuki in tow. The dimming sky makes it easier to stay inconspicuous. At the moment, he is quite thankful for not selling the apartment, and certainly not for the reasons he had projected.

Kotobuki’s breathing is even and slow, an improvement from the concerning hyperventilation. Quite the stubborn man, Kotobuki. Usually, it is a bother how insistent he is on his precious bonding activities and such, but Camus realizes very quickly that it served as a constant, unspoken insistence that he’s fine. And he has everyone fooled, had fooled Camus. He thought himself to be the one who was living a double life, performing for the sake of his duties when he had to and letting the persona fall in private. It’s nothing in comparison to Reiji, who completely obscures everything from everyone. At least Camus maintains his authenticity, he thinks. He has never felt his views being dismantled so much and so quickly in his life. The complete shock of it even evoked an uncontrollable physical reaction. He is not a man to shed tears.

The annoyance and neglect from Camus and the rest of Quartet Night came with the assumption that Kotobuki is the same as his image: resilient, unrelentingly energized, almost manically cheerful, as if the acting were not even acting at all. Camus realises that he has taken the consistency for granted. Everyone has. They unwittingly depend on him to maintain the normalcy. If Camus is honest, they are worse than Kotobuki’s fans, seeing him not as a person, but as a caricature. How would the fans label Kotobuki if they knew? Could they? He’s more mysterious than the mysterious idol, More violent (in a sense) than the idol with his token violent temper, and more two-faced than the most blatantly two-faced idol. If that’s the case, does The Clown Idol exist? Then who would be The Clown Idol? It must be everyone else. How annoying, to be played for a fool by The Fool himself.  
  
Camus sets Reiji down on a couch once they are inside. It’s only slightly warm for Camus, which means that it must be quite chilly for Reiji. He gathers up a few blankets and drapes them over him. He allows himself to care. It’s not as if anybody will know. Reiji will not wake up for another few minutes, so he sets water to boil for tea and procures two teacups and saucers as he contemplates how he will make himself appear to Reiji. He supposes he will have to assess how honest Reiji is when he awakens.

His musings nearly make him miss the cue for the water. He pushes down the thoughts for now, readying two cups of mint tea. One has no sweetening agent (Camus shudders at the thought, but Reiji prefers it that way), the other is filled a quarter of the way with raw honey. It’s a tad more than he would normally use, but he needs something a bit sweeter.

After setting the saucers on the center table in front of the couch, Camus sits idly next to the sleeping Reiji. The magic should wear off in a few seconds.

*^*^*^*^*

When Reiji wakes, he jolts up with a gasp before schooling his face into something resembling neutral. He doesn’t recognize this place, but he registers that Camus is sipping tea next to him.

“You’re awake. This is my apartment.” Reiji nods in understanding.  
“Perhaps your tea won’t turn neglected and cold.” Reiji blinks slowly and sips the tea in front of him. No sweetener, and just the right temperature.  
  
“How sweet of you to make me tea, Myu-Myu—”

“How much do you remember?” Camus knows that he did not alter Reiji’s memories at all, but he wants to test how much he will open himself up. Reiji sits in silence, continuing to sip the tea and considering. His face sets to an expression of grim resolve as he sets down the cup with a light clink. He looks over to Camus, eyes unsettlingly the same as ever. Unreadable. His mouth is a flat line. Camus meets his gaze, unrelenting, probably expecting Reiji to back out at some point. He would have, but before then, to Reiji’s astonishment, it is Camus who breaks. Reiji gapes slightly at the facial changes as Camus’s eyes subtly soften even as his brows furrow even more than usual.

*^*^*^*^*

Camus realises that more than his pride, someone else’s life is at stake. Something about it being Kotobuki makes him uneasy. If he isn’t upfront, nothing will change. All he holds back now are his words with the clench of teeth against his bottom lip. He swallows some of his pride.

“I apologise—”

“Myu-Myu—“

“I apologise if you’ve...for the fact that we—“

“Camus, please—“

“That we made you feel alone.”

He hopes it gets through to him. The apology is about as sincere as Camus can make it, which he supposes could appear blatantly insincere.

“Bullshit.” It takes a few seconds for Camus to process what Kotobuki just said. He curbs his gut reaction of scoffing at the vulgarity, but Kotobuki’s response is not necessarily surprising otherwise.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s bullshit!”

Camus feels something long-frozen in his chest beginning to thaw away at the sight of Kotobuki’s outburst. It thaws further when he begins to sob. It’s not at all like the dramas in which the four of them have performed, in which the fans see crying as some poignant moment to glorify and coo over. His face is so contorted that Camus can barely recognize him. He crinkles his nose reflexively at the snotty mess. Even muffled by his arm, Kotobuki’s cries reverberate in the room.

Such a display is hideous and quite uncomfortable. Camus, loathe as he is to admit it, is at a complete loss over how to act. Closer inspection shows that Kotobuki practically clings to himself for life. Camus sighs. He really is not one for being physical. No, that is an understatement. He is so utterly unused to such contact outside of the stage that it makes his skin burn. However, if it gets Kotobuki to stop his pathetic snivelling, which Camus concedes is more disconcerting, then he must extend himself more.

He rests a tentative hand on Kotobuki’s arm, making him cease his wailing from shock. It shocks Camus himself as well despite being the one who initiated such contact. He moves his arms from his face, tearing away from Camus’s hand. Something inexplicably sinks inside him, but then Kotobuki flings himself onto Camus, burying his (disgustingly snotty and teary) face against his chest, and that same something rises and makes it difficult to breathe in a twisted sort of heady way. Nervous fire sears Camus’s nerves.

The outbursts are even more tangible when Kotobuki sobs against Camus. He feels every contortion, every tightening, every tear, every vibration of his cries, and it’s real, it’s all real, this is Kotobuki Reiji, and this is real, he is real in this moment. Perhaps it allows for Camus to be real, as well. Not Count Camus of Silk Palace. Not excusing his actions as serving his Queen. Just Camus taking actions for himself and for the man in front of him who finally shows himself. Reiji.

Camus sits stock still, processing, can’t even begin to understand the skinship, the emotions, the fire, even as it fills him in turn, uncomfortably warm and sickening him to his core.

“Why?” Camus asks after a few minutes, the two of then in the same position.

Reiji stills, keeping his face pressed down and hidden. “I’m selfish.”

Camus huffs in exasperation. He’s vaguely amused even in a situation so serious; the answer does sound like him. But does it? He leaves that for later contemplation. Agitation grows far larger in him when Camus thinks about everything he is so uncharacteristically leaving for later.

“We know.”

Reiji begins to giggle, evidently hysterical even as he replies, “No you don’t.”

Before Camus can even begin to process it, Kotobuki (Reiji, it’s Reiji) pulls out his phone. It doesn’t take long for him to find what he was looking for and wordlessly gestures for Camus to take it and look.

Reiji still won’t look at Camus (rather, won’t let Camus look at Reiji), so Camus surrenders and looks at the phone. It’s Ai, but with differently styled hair. It’s the same cyan, but it is fully down, as opposed to half-up.

“Ai?”

“...Ne.”

“Ne...What is it, Kotobuki? You’ve become particularly annoying.”

“Kisaragi Aine.” Reiji might actually be completely insane. Camus does not want to deal with that. He is already overextending himself as is; he doesn’t need clinical insanity to deal with.

“Excuse me?”

“Look at the timestamp.”

Camus taps the photo to indicate the date, which is ten years ago, a few weeks before the day. Even as he attempts not to show it, he recoils in astonishment. What sort of sorcery could result in such a thing?

“Someone who looks just like Ai, you say.”

Reiji laughs, in mechanism if not in humor. “It’s Ai who looks like Aine.”

Camus raises a brow. Reiji stays silent, collecting his thoughts, for a solid minute.

“You know how Ai-Ai malfunctions in water?”

“...Yes.”

“It’s quite poetic, isn’t it? The water Aine flung himself into shuts Ai-Ai down as well.” He speaks flippantly, not at all matching his words. It reminds Camus of a certain song of Kotobuki’s, lackadaisical yet brimming with fear. It’s the only real glimpse into Reiji, and he thought at the time that such a song was an act, for such an uncertain song dedicated to “his dearest one” did not make any sense at the time. How ironic.

“Kotobuki—“

“No. I should finish. You’ll react the way I deserve. Maybe that’s why I’m willing to share all of this.”

Camus bites his tongue and curbs his temptation to clench his jaw, but his eye involuntarily twitches at such presumptuousness. His head pounds. Now he has to hear his band mate’s sob story? He can deal with one thing at a time, if that, but Reiji deals in all or nothing. Something buzzes vaguely in his lungs and in his head, but he pushes it down and stays quiet, if only because he can’t conceive of what sound he would let out if he tried to say something.

“It’s my fault, really. I decided to become an idol because I wanted to support him. He was my best friend. When I began doing it for myself, well. All I did was fail him. I missed a call.”

“Missing a call isn’t worth such melodrama.” Camus internally winces, but something just puts him more and more on edge and he’s losing grasp of the control he pours such effort into maintaining.

Reiji snatches the phone from Camus’s hands, presses a few buttons, and readies a voicemail for Camus to play.

“Sorry, Reiji. I can’t do this anymore.”

It’s Ai. It sounds just like him, at least, albeit far more emotional. It jars him.

“I need to talk to you. I can’t live like this anymore. Please pick up, Reiji. Please. I can’t live anymore, Reiji.”

A pause. Shaky breaths.

“Then I guess this is goodbye.” Click. Camus sees the date. It’s exactly ten years ago to the day. Bile rises in his throat, which he subsequently swallows down. He looks up to Reiji, who silently cries in front of him. Not really thinking much of it at the moment, still in shock over the onslaught of new information and emotions, Camus brushes the pad of his thumb against his cheek where a tear rolls down. It’s less of a comforting gesture for Reiji so much as for himself. Kotobuki and tears of bereavement remain incongruous, but he is not just Kotobuki. It’s too much for Camus to deal with, too many contradictions over which he has no control. Curt yet remorseful, Camus mutters an apology and scrambles for words that mean something to Reiji, about whom he does not know much at all. He has many questions, but he can only manage one.

“...Does Ai know?”

“Not that I know of. Though his consciousness is connected to Aine’s, so I’m not sure.”

Given Camus’s (rather, the Queen’s) affinity for ice magic and the bizarre curse cast upon his annoying junior, such information does not even faze him. Maybe he has just lost the capacity. Somehow, he forms words through the growing buzz.

“Oh. So he’s alive?”

“Yes. He has been in a coma since—” Reiji chokes on his words, and Camus grows impatient. Not impatient, perhaps agitated, if he were to have the presence of mind to discern the discomfort, but it’s a rogue force to reflect Camus’s loss of control. He lets out an uncertain exhale and unconsciously pulls at his hair, a tic which he believed himself to be disciplined out of doing, but it keeps him centered at the moment. Today is filled with surprises, it seems, and Camus has never been one to handle surprise well.

“Did you not think to speak with Ai on this matter?”

“No! I can’t do that.”

Camus is becoming quite aggravated, not at Reiji, for once, but at himself, because he has no idea what he can do for him. He always maintains composure and serves himself and, more importantly, his Queen. No, that is not right. The Queen was his priority, but more and more, she holds no worth as an anchor anymore. If she did, Camus would not be pouring so much effort into the enigma in front of him. Giving (and receiving) comfort is, loath as he is to admit it, completely out of his depth. He pinches the bridge of his nose for the umpteenth time today and attempts to keep from colouring his voice with anything, any of the damn persistent buzzing in his head and in his fingertips.

“Do pray tell, why not?”

“I don’t want him to feel guilty.” Just infuriating.

“Why should it even matter?! It’s his—well, Aine’s—selfish act.”

“Because of my selfishness!”

“You certainly love to make everything all about you, don’t you?!” As soon as the words leave from the tip of his tongue, his regret is palpable, albeit not in the traditional sense. It manifests with the unpleasant numbness in his fingers.

^*^*^*^*^

Reiji swears his vision tunnels at the scolding because it’s true its true all he does is act selfishly and hurt everyone around him he should really just disappear—

“Kotobuki.”

—he doesnt want to see he cant see cant look at the eyes pale blue yet clear as air that he cant breathe because “Youre right its not about me its about everyone else i cant be selfish it hurts them how fucking selfish that i am even crying to you its pathetic i need to hurt alone because its what i deserve and i dont mean to hurt anyone im sorry but its not enough you should just leave im sorry you should all leave im sorry im sorry—“

“Reiji! Stop apologising! You are spouting nonsense at this point!”

Reiji’s thoughts freeze and he opens his eyes.

^*^*^*^*^

Good. At least he is listening now.

“I’m not leaving while you pose a danger to yourself. Actually, even when you don’t, I will not leave. None of us will, if you would believe it.” Reiji remains silent, so Camus presses on.

“I didn’t mean it, what I said earlier. I don’t mean it. It was a selfish outburst on my part, which is exactly the opposite of what you need.”

Reiji finally speaks. “First, you call me selfish. Then, you call yourself selfish. I don’t understand.”

His words open up an opportunity for Camus to turn the conversation to something less personal and less uncomfortable. “It’s human nature to be selfish.” Just like that, he would segue into something far safer. However, something stops him from taking that route. Camus tells himself that he is returning a favour by intentionally wading in foreign, sentiment-heavy territory.

“We are both rather terrible at being selfish.” Camus does not question his lack of obligatory insult, the addendum of loathing to admit that he and Reiji could ever have anything in common. Reiji’s mouth stays shut, jaw clenching visibly, and Camus takes that it as a begrudging cue for him to continue.

“Of course, you are still innately selfish, but you suppress it. You do not give yourself the right to be selfish, even if it is uncontrollable. You have a habit of taking actions which you tell yourself are for others, but when you strip away those superficial motivations, the reality is that in a twisted way, your actions are your attempt to make up for a lack.” Camus’s implication is blatant despite knowing that Reiji would have been perceptive enough to pick up on a more subtle cue. For him, it is as close to true personal honesty as he can achieve.

Reiji takes a sip of tea, places the cup down gingerly, and peers into the chartreuse liqueur as he responds. “Then what are you lacking?”

At the question, Camus lets out a noise from deep in his throat, more pained than he deems appropriate for his feelings. He shifts his gaze to the wall despite the sterile white sickening him. Seeing Reiji’s face, somehow his subconscious catches on that it would be far worse. “A sense of self.” He feels so much in his fingertips that they are numb, except for his thumbs which still feel the phantom damp warmth of Reiji’s tears and cheeks pink from exertion. With a sinking feeling of panic comes the insight that he would not be able to pick up his three-quarters empty cup without it falling and shattering against the table.

Reiji laces his fingers together tightly to the point that they curl against the backs of his hands. His fingernails are almost certainly digging in and leaving marks. He speaks slowly, not from deliberating his words so much as attempting to steady himself. “What do you mean?”

Camus has an awareness of his rapid loss of control. Unfortunately, he copes atrociously with such a scenario, so his only option is to grasp to what he can consciously control. As best he can in his current state, Camus shifts his face as he has practised for years in front of the mirror into the expression he wears for the public and wills his throat muscles to unclench enough to reign in his voice. “I am merely a vessel. From the moment I was born, I quite literally lived to serve. My parents hold no affection for me, only insidious animus toward each other. As the sole rightful heir, I shouldered the burdens of my parents’ whims, namely the product of their affairs. I could only do so much. I thought the Queen to be a saviour for taking me in, but I was just easy pickings for someone to do her bidding, namely exacting petty revenge. It was an embarrassingly recent realisation, and with it, I realised that I do not truly belong anywhere—“

^*^*^*^*^

The way Camus makes such an effort to remain put together is a reminder of just how young he is. They both are, if Reiji is honest with himself, but Camus is _young_. An irrationally possessive part of Reiji compels him to ensure that Camus only shows that to him. Reiji cannot see Camus’s face, but he can visualise it based on the unnerving lilt of his public persona voice. If Reiji did not want to see his face before, he especially could not bear it now. His own face is not much better, but the tea at least made it a bit more foreign than the reflection in his bathroom mirror. He feels and watches his eyelids drooping from exhaustion. His eyes burn the more Camus speaks, and it is only when Reiji notices a ripple distorting his reflection that he realises he is crying again.

“—and even now, I…” The sudden way Camus has let go of that blandly pleasant voice gives him whiplash. Reiji waits a full minute for Camus to go on before he slowly looks up and next to him. Camus stares at the wall, still.

“Even now, you…?” Camus narrows his eyes in irritation. Despite him staying fixated on the wall, Reiji senses that the gesture is directed at him.  
“I refuse to say it. You know exactly what I imply.”

“You’re right, but I want to hear it from you.”

Camus’s voice tightens. “No, because I know your canned rhetorical question, and I am not feeling so inclined to hear it.”

Reiji raises a brow. “Do you really?”

He closes his eyes in a practiced, slow motion. “Of course. ‘But what about Quartet Night,’ you’d say. Am I wrong?”

“No, you are correct. I am curious why you don’t want to hear it.”

Camus turns slowly to Reiji with an expression of which he cannot make sense; nevertheless, it sucks the breath from his lungs. “Because I have a canned answer to match which is a blatant lie, and I do not think I can bear lying at the moment.”

^*^*^*^*^

Like a child, Camus squeezes his eyes closed. Their bizarre parallel conversations are making actual headway, and it terrifies him. He feels as if he tore out his heart from his chest; perhaps that is why he can feel it thumping in his whole body. The truth is so much to process that he cannot concentrate on his breathing or anything else. He lifts his arms and leans forward, falling with no expectation of being caught. However, when in but a moment he turns so deliriously warm and slack that he can barely feel his heart still pumping in his throat, Camus thinks in a newfound bout of manic optimism that he may have found someone to whom he can trust to pledge allegiance.

^*^*^*^*^

When Camus collapses forward, Reiji reflexively catches him, one arm supporting his head and the other around his waist. Camus’s heart thumps as rapidly as Reiji’s, and dread not too different from that which he felt with Aine’s voicemail surges down his spine.

“Camus! Camus, are you alright?” Reiji looks down to read his face, which is completely useless given the fact that Camus’s face is completely buried against his chest. No response.

“Myu-Myu?” Camus’s arms wrap tightly around him, and excuses materialise rapid-fire to tell himself that this is a coincidence, Camus is not doing this, Reiji will wake up to his alarm and it will be today, then he will slash through his skin because of course this would not happen in any reality where Reiji let Aine die.

After Camus’s breath slows down some, he lifts his head and speaks. His gaze makes Reiji shudder with something unnerving but not unwelcome. “I wish to pledge a new oath.”

What? “What?”

“I wish to pledge myself to you.”

“And I still have no clue what that means.”

Camus scoffs, and the fact that this is what evokes such fondness in Reiji should concern him, but it doesn’t. “I suppose you wouldn’t know. You are a commoner, after all. If you would prefer, I can spell it out to you in a way that any filthy peasant can understand.”

“Then go ahead! Wait, what are you—“ And in laughably clichéd fashion, Camus leans forward and shuts him up with a kiss. Given how terrible Camus’s aim is with his lips, Reiji could have continued talking, but the action itself made the words die on Reiji’s tongue from shock. Barely a moment later and Camus pulls back, flush high on his cheeks, and Reiji quite seriously thinks that Camus has turned feverish, especially when Camus begins to shake. After a pregnant pause, Reiji cannot help but laugh at the absurdity of this sequence of events. He then realises that the shaking is from Camus’s concerningly rapid hiccoughs of laughter.

“Let me get this right: as soon as we up about deepset baggage, you have gone from being indifferent or perhaps irritated...to kissing me and asking me out in about the most bizarre, antiquated…” He flails for words, “...most Camus-like fashion humanly possible. I never thought I would be the one saying this to you, but isn’t this batshit insane?”

Reiji waits a long while for him to collect himself, taking deep breaths that Camus eventually mimics. “Perhaps.” Even that one word is worryingly slurred, and Camus’s eyes are unfocused and nearly closed. This is definitely a terrible idea right now.

“Camus, you are not thinking rationally right now.” Reiji easily unwraps himself from Camus; his grip has weakened substantially.

“No, I am not.” To Reiji’s relief, Camus sounds tired but of somewhat sound mind, and he does not protest when Reiji lays him down. Even so, Camus keeps his eyes open.

“You need to rest.” Camus’s brow furrows.

“I refuse. Not while you are…” he trails off, but Reiji can fill in the rest of the sentence. It makes his heart swell with so much affection that it dispels the guilt which would have otherwise consumed him. Camus’s hand is slack next to him on the couch, and Reiji even reaches out to hold it before considering how it might rattle him. As a result, it awkwardly hovers above.

“I’m not leaving you, just like how you said that you will not leave me.” Reiji smiles at Camus and notes that it is not forced. “So you can rest easy, Myu-Myu.” Camus has no verbal response, but his hand twitches up against Reiji’s. Reiji takes that as permission to hold it, and so he does. Camus’s eyes are shut, and his breathing is steady. The relief soothes Reiji like a healing balm. Perhaps Camus is on to something with the pledges he was talking about. They each have a contract pledging them to Quartet Night and the Shining Agency, pledging all of its members to each other. Reiji, in a way, pledged himself to Aine, and when he effectively died, Reiji continued to cling to this self-imposed pledge that could never be fulfilled. Camus’s to his Queen, Reiji deduces, is all Camus had for a long time, much like Reiji’s own guilt.

Not anymore.

*^*^*^*^*

When Camus comes to, he notices two sensations, one being his right hand feeling far warmer than the left and the other being a pounding headache. To his relief, outside is dark, which stops his headache from worsening. He registers that Reiji had fallen asleep sitting up with his hand on Camus’s own. With the realisation that Reiji has literally been holding his hand for however long Camus had been unconscious, he jolts upright. He immediately regrets it when his head protests against the sudden movement. Leaving Reiji’s side to procure a glass of water, he thinks back on the previous events. It was an almost out-of-body experience, like an overexcited puppeteer had jolted him in manic motions to wring out his body and mind. However, with an unprecedented lack of denial, Camus acknowledges that his actions were honest, perhaps more honest than any he had taken in a long while. With that, he shuffles back to the couch next to Reiji and takes small sips of water while waiting for Reiji to awaken.

Some minutes later, Reiji does, in fact, awaken. Not aware of his surroundings as of yet, he stretches his arms up and groans. Camus winces as he hears the cracking of Reiji’s joints, but more prominent than that to Camus is the strange, involuntary movement of his own mouth. Reiji turns to him, eyes looking unfocused and sleepy, and the feeling intensifies.

“Myu-Myu, what are you grinning at? Are you alright?” So that’s what it was. Camus makes the executive decision to not stifle his expression.

“Nothing in particular. And yes. I just have quite the headache, but water is helping. How about yourself?”

Reiji smiles back, and it is so clearly genuine that the sight forces the air out of Camus’s lungs with a force. An ever-growing irrational part of him makes him consider the embarrassing and practically impossible possibility of Reiji hearing his thrumming heartbeat.

“Better. I’ve just been thinking.”

“You, thinking? How frightening.” Camus, for a fleeting moment, fears that Reiji would take the poor attempt at humour as seriously as Camus would, but Reiji’s huff of laughter makes him feel absolutely silly.

“Yeah, really. But seriously, I was thinking about what you said, you know, about pledges.”

Camus cannot read his tone, which makes him apprehensive. Reiji can certainly read it from his voice. How unfair. “Go on.”

Reiji laces his fingers together. “I think we should try it. It’s so corny that it has to work.”

Camus’s eye twitches. “Making a pledge is serious business, Reiji—“

“And you have to make a pact to seal the deal, right?”

Camus does not like where Reiji is going with this at all. “Are you completely stupid? I will not let you mutilate yourself in the name of a pact. You have done quite enough of that.”

Reiji gives Camus a look that strikes him as incredibly fond. “No, no blood pact.” Reiji unlaces his fingers. “I was going to say that the pact should be sealed with something so corny and sweet that it would be too much even for you.” His smile turns more nervous, and Camus raises a brow.

“How so?”

Reiji grins wider, but his eyes look almost wild with nerves. He lifts a hand and points to his lips. “With a kiss!”

After the endless stream of revelations, the last thing Camus wants is for Reiji to feel uncertain. Uncertainty is annoying and frightening, which is why Camus avoids it at all costs, although perhaps some exposure would make him better equipped to cope with it. Camus lifts a hand to Reiji’s and pulls it down from his face. “That can certainly be arranged.” With that, Camus closes the gap between them with far more grace and accuracy than before. He closes his eyes not because he fears Reiji’s expression, but because Reiji’s movements speak for him. The kiss is sensual, not in the arousing sense so much as in the sense that it is effective tactile communication. They have exchanged enough words already, and neither of them have the capacity to verbally open up or discuss logistics (like what to tell Mikaze and Kurosaki) anyway. Reiji’s lips burn Camus’s own like a branding iron, but he enjoys it to the point where he does not pull away even when he trembles and can no longer breathe. Thankfully, Reiji seems to have stolen Camus’s usual common sense and pulls away. Only when Camus is more aware of himself does he realise that the hand holding Reiji’s is shaking violently. He braces himself for pity, but Reiji just shifts their hands so as to kiss a knuckle before setting Camus’s hand back down to the couch.

“And I thought I wasn’t used to this.” Now, that causes Camus’s agitation to settle. “It’s gonna take some time. But it’s fine. It’s all gonna be fine.”

*^*^*^*^*

Reiji doesn’t even know if the words he’s spouting are true, but for the first time in a while, he wants to have the conviction to believe in them. When Camus nods jerkily but unambiguously in agreement with him, Reiji mentally notes that down as part of their pledge.

*^*^*^*^*

_Two years, five months, twenty-nine days, seventeen hours, and eighteen minutes later_

*^*^*^*^*

Figuring out when the wedding would be resulted in just about the most idiotic argument Camus and Reiji have ever gotten into. Obviously, a winter wedding was optimal. Reiji (wrongly) disagreed, stubbornly insisting that a fall wedding would be best. In the end, Reiji celebrated a loud victory over the wedding actually being during the fall. Camus graciously allowed Reiji to feel as if he won while he quietly declared himself victorious because the date was closer to the end of fall than to the beginning. It is all terribly petty, but, Camus supposes, being at the point where he and Reiji are comfortable being petty is a remarkable feat.

Camus and Ranmaru’s previously intense vitriol resulted in many petty disputes, but it was incredibly difficult to find a balance with Reiji. They never used to argue after their quite sudden beginning, not because they had nothing to fight about, but because neither of them were remotely good at healthily approaching disputes. Conflict finally erupted a few months in, at the time when they discussed disclosing their relationship to Ai and Ranmaru. Even though the scar is barely visible on Reiji’s stomach, Camus still sees the mark of shame as vividly as he did the moment he walked into the bathroom to Reiji crying on the tile floor and blood running down the shower drain.

They still see the same therapist they began with right after that incident. With her help, Reiji has not cut in over a year, Camus can handle sustained touch, and they were able to reach the balance they so desperately needed and never truly had before in their lives.

Camus proposed to Reiji in his own way: “Let us legally ratify our pledge.” Reiji sobbed. Loath as Camus is to admit it, he too was a bit teary-eyed. The same is currently happening at the altar. Neither of them were listening to the oaths, since there was no point. They had made their own long ago.

  
*^*^*^*^*

The doctor is at the wedding, and so nobody is in the laboratory to witness the upward twitch of Aine’s lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Shfkkbcf fndkfkfldjfkflcl


End file.
